


The good thing's here to stay (Please let it stay)

by Meloenijs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dog Cops, Domestic, Getting Together, M/M, Mission Fic, Pineapple and Coconut Scones, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meloenijs/pseuds/Meloenijs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's promotion gives him the chance to get his own place where he enjoys the company of his neighbour, while struggling with incompetent handlers at SHIELD.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He held out an array of colourful folders. “I brought some take-out menus, since I doubt you’re able to cook at the moment.”</i><br/><i>“You’re a lifesaver,” Clint said as he ushered Phil in. “How about you order something for the both of us while I get you a beer?”</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [trope-bingo](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) square of "au: neighbours".

The room felt too big, looking bare even with all his stuff scattered around. For a moment, Clint regretted the decision to move out the SHIELD base and into his very first, own apartment. But he knew his promotion to full-fledged field agent – finally allowing him to live off-base – had come at the exact time, because while he was prepared to give his life on the job, he really didn’t want them to dictate what to do with it any longer.

Clint pulled himself out of his reverie and walked towards the kitchen. The kitchen that had only been his for a day and therefore not yet stocked. Great. He turned back around, through the bare living room and out his apartment. Looked like his first day in his own place would be celebrated with some take-out.

He ignored the elevator in favour of the stairs, surprised when he passed a guy in a business suit at the bottom. Clint glanced at him, unsure if he was supposed to acknowledge him in some way. His indecision was solved when the other guy simply nodded once and moved on.

The neighbourhood he now lived in had plenty of little dinners that would do take-out, but until he had the time to scope them all out, he’d be walking to his usual place a few blocks away from HQ.

\---

“Barton!”

Clint’s shoulders tensed, but he turned around with a smirk. “What?”

His handler stepped close into his personal space, trying to intimidate him. “You’re a good agent. Great sniper, too. But if you pull a stunt like that one more time, you’re out of here.”

“Y’know,” Clint said, leaning even closer, “I don’t think you have that authority. And if I hadn’t caused that distraction, two junior agents would be dead. But I’ll be sure to follow your advice when you’re in trouble.”

His handler didn’t reply, just kept staring him down. Clint grinned and started walking away, calling out over his shoulder, “And I’m touched to know you actually care about me and not just the amount of paperwork a dead asset would involve.”

The sound of angry footsteps stomping away felt like bliss to Clint. He knew he was right, if he hadn’t broken cover during the mission their target would have executed the two junior agents trailing him. Clint had just slightly sped up the timetables by shooting the guy, but the only difference it eventually made was saving two lives. His handler was an idiot who cared more about how his track record looked than anything else.

It might not matter soon anyway. Clint was likely to be handed off to someone else before long, gaining another write-up for insubordination. It didn’t really matter. As long as Clint knew what he was doing was the right thing, they could point him to someone new every day.

The cold outside air suddenly hit him as he left the building, and he briefly regretted the loss of his jacket earlier that day. He’d handed it off to one of the junior agents who’d been in shock from coming so close to death. He felt for the young guy, but Clint had a feeling he wouldn’t be with SHIELD for much longer.

Walking at a brisk pace to shorten the usual half-hour walk to his place, he remembered his keys had been in his jacket. He came to a stop, debating whether or not to turn back. He decided it would be futile – the junior agent would have gone home already, and he could pick his lock anyway.

Arriving at his building, he was grateful he didn’t live somewhere that had a locked main door. He sprinted up the stairs, made sure no one was around in his hallway, and fell to his knees before his door. It’d been a while since he’d done this without a proper lock pick, but he always kept some variations on him that should do the trick.

Focusing completely at the lock, listening intently for the little tell-tale clicks, Clint heard the door to the stairs open too late. He looked up to see the business guy he’d met the first day walking towards him.

“Uh… It’s not what you think it is?”

That got him an amused look.

“So you didn’t somehow lock yourself out and are now trying to break in?”

Clint grinned and shrugged. “Lost my keys.”

Business guy stood watching Clint struggle with the lock for a moment before stepping closer. “Why don’t you just call the janitor and ask for the master key?”

Clint paused and turned to him with an incredulous look. “There’s a janitor?”

This time Clint was on the receiving end of an unbelieving look. “How long have you been living here again?” The suit shook his head. “Here, I’ll call him for you.”

Clint was sure he almost had the lock open, but he didn’t want to alienate the first neighbour he’d talked to in the two months he lived here. He pulled back his tools and stood up, listening to the suit explain the situation.

“Thanks for doing that,” Clint said when the phone call ended.

“No problem. He said it could take a while before he got here since he’s fixing someone’s piping. Do you want to wait in my apartment until he gets here?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

This earned Clint another small, amused smile. “I wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah, alright. Hey, I’m Clint, by the way.”

“Phil. Nice meeting you, Clint.” Clint grasped Phil’s extended hand. “I live just one door down.”

Clint hid away his tools and followed Phil into his place, taking stock of the lay-out. It looked exactly like his, except that Phil had the corner apartment and therefore more windows. The main difference was that it looked warm and welcoming, something Clint had been trying to accomplish by buying more decorations to fill the empty space. He had yet to succeed, but seeing this place, he got the idea he might just simply need a bit more time to actually _live_ there and make it completely his own.

Phil threw his keys in a little bowl on his coffee table. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Just some soda, thanks.”

Clint stood around awkwardly while Phil went over to the fridge and pulled out two cans. Phil handed one to Clint and gestured to the sofa. “Make yourself at home. I have to write some reports for work, so don’t mind me.”

Settling into the sofa, Clint asked, “What job do you have?”

Phil paused from where he was unearthing a laptop from under a pile of magazines and looked up. “Detective.”

“I’ll count myself lucky you didn’t arrest me.”

Phil stood up with the laptop and just smirked. Clint watched how he installed himself at the dining table, setting up the laptop complete with a tiny mouse. When Phil started typing and didn’t look up anymore, Clint grabbed the remote and turned on the television, flicking through the channels.

After going through every channel at least twice and finding nothing to his taste, Clint took a look through the recorded programmes. “I’d never have pegged you for the type to watch trashy reality TV.”

“To me, it looks like fiction anyway. It’s amusing.”

Clint snorted and continued browsing.

They sat like that until someone knocked on the door, disturbing the peace. It turned out to be the janitor, who’d unlocked Clint’s apartment.

“Need the spare keys, before I leave?”

Clint shook his head, “Nah. Should have mine back tomorrow.”

The janitor nodded and left. Clint turned to Phil, who was still sitting at the table. “Thanks for this. Do you want to go get a drink sometime so I can pay you back?”

“Alright,” Phil said, coming over to Clint.

“So, thanks again and I’ll see you?”

“You will,” Phil replied with another small smile. “Bye.”

Clint nearly ran the thirty feet to his own apartment, giddy with childish excitement. Here he’d successfully created a possibility for the developing of a friendship, entirely on his own. Most people he knew he’d met at work, forced together by circumstances without any further relationship. Clint was looking forward to their night out.

\---

It’d been days since Clint last saw his own bed – or any bed, really. The mission had been a complete clusterfuck and Clint was even slightly regretting not going to Medical to get an upgrade of his field-applied bandages. Especially now that he was standing in front of his door, unable to reach his keys because of his stiffly wrapped-together fingers. He gave up with a sigh and rested his forehead against his door, pondering the pros and cons of smashing his head repeatedly against it. A hand fell on his shoulder and Clint very carefully didn’t jump, like the professional he was.

“Did you lose your keys again?”

Clint turned around and ignored the instinct to squirm away from the touch. “Nah, just can’t reach them.” He held up his thickly bandaged hands in explanation.

Phil inhaled loudly through his lips to show his pity. “Do you want me to grab them?”

“Sure,” Clint nodded after a moment. “They’re in my right pocket.”

Despite the obvious opportunity, Phil kept his touch quick and clinical, which Clint was grateful for. He didn’t like people touching him unless he was entirely comfortable with them.

Phil opened the door for him, and made to give his keys back. “Can you put them back in my pocket?” Phil could, and did so.

“Thanks. So, I know I promised to take you out for a drink but if you’re free tonight, how does a beer from my fridge sound?” Clint asked, bringing one hand up to the back of his head only to be painfully reminded of the bandages.

“That sounds fine. Give me half an hour to get changed?”

Clint beamed. “Don’t get lost.”

Half an hour later, and Clint had already come to the conclusion all the foodstuff in his fridge had gone bad while he’d been having the time of his life getting all the skin stripped off his hands. Hopefully Phil wasn’t too much of a health-nut to mind take-out.

A knock sounded through the room. Clint opened the door and spared a moment to be grateful he didn’t have circular doorknobs.

“Hey Phil. Looking good,” Clint said. It was a different look from the usual suit, now replaced by a soft-looking gray sweater and worn jeans.

“Thanks.” He held out an array of colourful folders. “I brought some take-out menus, since I doubt you’re able to cook at the moment.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Clint said as he ushered Phil in. “How about you order something for the both of us while I get you a beer?”

Phil took out his phone as he sat down in the sofa. Clint went to kitchen, grabbing a carrying tray to place the beer on because he wasn’t prepared to fully humiliate himself yet by trying to carry the beer between his bandaged hands. It was still a bit of a juggle, but at least he had it completely under control when he stepped back into the living room.

He placed the tray down and glanced up at Phil, daring him to say something. Phil just smiled sweetly and opened two cans, handing one to Clint.

“Cheers. I’m afraid I don’t have any reality shows to watch. I’ve got some dvd’s lying around, or I recorded the entire first season of _Dog Cops_.”

“Definitely _Dog Cops_ , if you don’t mind,” Phil said with enthusiasm. “I heard the finale was heartbreaking.”

Clint handed the remote to Phil, who set up the first episode. Just as the end credits were running, they were startled by another knock. Clint got up with a groan and opened the door, trying to get it over with quickly but once again being hindered by his hands. He was _this_ close to just throwing his wallet at the smirking delivery boy when Phil appeared and took the bags, handing the waiting guy enough money to cover the food and waved him off.

“No, Phil, this was meant to be me repaying you. Here,“ Clint turned over his wallet and tried to wave the notes fluttering out over to Phil, “at least take this.”

Phil did no such thing and sat back down. “It’s okay, Clint. That’s what friends do.”

That left Clint feeling unsettled, unsure if he was being a terrible friend already. He just didn’t want a debt to anyone, and resolved to make up for it somehow.

Clint grabbed some utensils and two plates, eating while continuing their marathon of _Dog Cops_.

Halfway through the marathon, he felt his body relaxing, finally catching up to the fact his mission was over and he was safely back home, only a room away from his bed. He didn’t really want to kick Phil out, since that would be rude and they were having a great time, bonding over how quickly Sgt. Whiskers had become their favourite. Clint soldiered on, keeping himself awake through the episode.

Phil seemed to noticed despite Clint’s best efforts, and turned off the DVR after the episode ended.

“It’s pretty late, I should get going.”

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.” Clint pulled up his shoulders.

“You don’t need an excuse for being tired,” Phil smiled. “I had a great time tonight. Is it okay with you if we continue this another night?”

“Weeeeell…” Clint said, “I’m not sure. Are you gonna keep paying?”

“Only if you want me to,” Phil replied gravely.

“Fine, you can come. Just don’t bring any money next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint shook his head, trying to keep the smile of his face. He followed Phil to the door, leaning back against it after he closed it behind Phil. The night had gone a lot better than he’d expected, considering his impromptu invitation and empty fridge. But Phil had turned out to be just as straight-up as he’d seemed to be those few moment during their meeting, displaying a sense of dry humour and a healthy amount of common sense, unearthed by his comments made during the show.

He pushed himself off the door and made his way over to his bed, quickly stripping out of his clothes and crawling under the sheets. He’d take care of his personal hygiene when he wasn’t dead on his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: generic Twilight references in the dialogue.

The next day, Clint went straight to Medical to get his hands and the shoulder he’d dislocated and had roughly shoved back into place properly checked out. The doctor grumbled at him about leaving it so long, but in the end, no permanent damage was caused. Clint left with his hands properly disinfected, the clunky bandages replaced by neat compresses, and two weeks of medical leave.

Following protocol for once, he took the two weeks worth of bandages and antiseptic gel and left to go report to his handler. He made a slight detour through the break room to get himself some coffee before walking into the labyrinth of offices to search out the one that held his current handler.

His handler was still a massive asshole, and Clint left the building twenty minutes later with the assurance he’d have a new handler by the time he came back from his medical leave. It didn’t matter to Clint. His new handler would be just the same and before long, Clint would be transferred again.

He took a detour through a local supermarket, grabbing enough food to feed a small army. He backtracked when he passed the candy rack, remembering that Phil had mentioned he had a bit of a sweet tooth the previous night. Getting some candy for someone you’d only properly met a day ago wasn’t too presumptuous, right?

Walking home carrying all the bags was hell on his hands, but it was nothing he hadn’t previously endured. Inside his building, he took the lift for the first time, pushing the button for his floor with his elbow. The lift pinged, and Clint stumbled out to his door. He dropped the bags, fished out his keys – manageable this time thanks to the smaller compresses – and opened his door. Seeing as it was still early morning, Clint hastened to put away the groceries and stripped out of his clothes, eager to get back to bed. He had some sleep to catch up on.

\---

Clint woke up when the sun was setting. He lounged around in bed a while, unwilling to get out of the warmth. Eventually, he gave up and dragged himself out of bed and into the shower. He took his time, enjoying the warm water beating down on him. A cloud of steam escaped as soon as he opened the door. He threw on some sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, ready for a night of relaxation.

He started working on a simple meal, and quickly he had more than enough for one person. Early on in his life, Clint had learned to cook for the circus, feeding tons of people. Later, when he was on his own, he’d never quite managed to scale down the proportions and started the habit of simply freezing all the leftovers.

This time, Clint realised he had someone to share with. He went outside, knocked on Phil’s door, grimaced at the pain, and hoped he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself.

“Clint. What a surprise,” Phil said as he opened the door.

“Yeah,” Clint grinned. “But I just made dinner and I always make too much so I thought maybe you wanted to join me? If you haven’t had dinner yet, that is.”

“Sounds great,” Phil placated him. He stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him.

Clint led the way back to his apartment and had a brief panic attack when he remembered he’d already decked the table for two. Phil didn’t seem to mind, though, easing Clint’s mind.

“Want a beer with that?”

“Do you have some soda?”

“Sure.” Clint handed Phil a can of coke and grabbed a beer for himself.

“It’s just that I haven’t eaten yet, and drinking on an empty stomach is inadvisable.”

Clint saluted with his beer to Phil. “Smart guy.”

They both ate quickly, and Phil ended up filling his plate a second time. He ate slower, and looked at Clint, contemplating. “You really do make a lot of food. I could probably live on these leftovers for a week.”

Clint scoffed. “Not with the way you’re eating right now. Looks like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“Busy day at the office today,” Phil shrugged.

“Are you allowed to tell me about it?”

Phil took another bite and chewed slowly, watching Clint. “I got an early call this morning,” he eventually said. “They needed me to clean up the mess from an op that had gone wrong.”

Clint didn’t reply and watched how Phil ate his meal. “Do you want to take the leftovers with you?”

“Sure. It’s really great,” Phil said with a small smile.

Clint cleaned away the dirty plates and scooped the leftovers in one of the plastic boxes he had lying around. He turned around, holding up the box in his hands, “Are you busy tonight or can I put this in the fridge for a while?”

“If that isn’t a roundabout way to ask something,” Phil teased. “I can stay. After this day I took tomorrow of.”

“Great.” Clint dumped the box into his fridge and ushered Phil to the living room, handing him the remote once again. “Your choice. I don’t mind.”

It turned out Phil loved channel surfing, only settling once it became obvious Clint had a very limited set of available channels. At Phil’s incredulous look, Clint merely shrugged. “I don’t watch much television.”

Once the programme ended and Phil started another cycle through the channels, Clint got up and went to get more drinks and some of the snacks he’d bought earlier. He pushed one of the bags in Phil’s hands and settled in to watch Phil’s new choice – _Clean House_.

Halfway through the episode, Phil turned to Clint and confessed with a deprecating smile that Niecy Nash was one of his celebrity crushes. Clint chuckled and threw a piece of candy at him, which Phil somehow managed to still catch.

They sat watching in peace for the rest of the evening, Clint quietly being lulled into sleepiness by Phil’s calm presence. He was slightly worried about how soon he trusted a man he’d only known a few days, but then again, SHIELD _had_ declared the building safe before he’d moved in. Either Phil was an absolute mastermind, or he was perfectly trustworthy. Clint preferred the second option.

\---

Clint startled awake with the feeling of being watched. He held himself still and relaxed, unwilling to show he was awake while he tried to assess his surroundings. A slow murmuring noise was audible, something warm sat next to him and he was lying on something soft. Damn. Clint felt like a fool for not realising he’d fallen asleep on his sofa with Phil still there.

Releasing a short breath to show he was awake, he turned his head in Phil’s direction and caught his eye.

“Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

“It’s your place. I should be apologising for intruding this long,” Phil shrugged. “I just wasn’t sure how to wake you.”

Clint huffed and sank deeper into the sofa, stretching out his arms and legs before flopping them back down. “Staring certainly did the trick, Edward. Let me go get your leftovers.”

He left Phil behind with a bemused expression, grabbing the plastic box of leftovers out of the fridge. He walked back into the living room, coming to a stop behind to sofa and handing the box over to Phil. “Here. It’s no blood, but it should get you through the day alright.”

Phil leaned his head backwards to look at Clint and narrowed his eyes briefly. “Does this comparison mean I’ll get a werewolf defending your virtue behind me someday?”

“Depends on whether or not you can make me yours fast enough,” Clint grinned.

Phil smirked before he stood up, walking around the sofa and pulling Clint into a brief kiss. Before Clint could properly respond, he pulled back, and Clint was left standing in his living room, watching Phil walk off with a small backwards wave.

Looking down at his bandaged hands, Clint released a long-suffering sigh. It’d be a long and restless night.

\---

Clint had been staring at his empty wall for the better part of an hour already when a knock on the door pulled him out of his musings. He’d have to decide whether or not to paint the wall bright purple another time.

“Hey Phil,” Clint said as he pulled open the door.

“Clint,” Phil nodded, “I brought your container back.” Clint accepted the container Phil held out and waved him inside.

“Are you sure you don’t have a tapeworm? This usually lasts me several days.”

Phil smiled bashfully. “You know how people turn into vultures as soon as they spot free food? I made the mistake of taking it with me for lunch.”

“As long as they enjoyed it, I guess. Do you want today’s leftovers as well?”

“If you’re sure. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Me neither. You can join in again, if you want to.”

Phil ducked his head and looked up from under his brows with a disarming smile. “I’d like that, thanks.”

Clint grinned and clapped his hands, biting back a wince when he was once again reminded _why_ he was on medical leave. “C’mon, you can make yourself useful and chop some vegetables.”

He led Phil to the kitchen and started pulling the pans and a chopping board out of the cabinets. “Hope you like tagliatelle.”

Phil did like tagliatelle, and soon enough Clint had him set up behind the chopping board, cutting the peppers and tomatoes while Clint prepared the chicken in a wok and got the pasta ready. Phil leaned closer than strictly necessary when he added his vegetables into the wok and stayed into Clint’s space, watching him stir. The whole situation felt oddly peaceful to Clint, and as he lifted a spoon of sauce to Phil’s mouth, he thought he could get used to it. Phil hummed into his ear to – hopefully – indicate the sauce was to his liking, and _that_ was definitely something Clint could get used to.

They took their plates with them in the living room, Phil having suggested they continue watching the rest of _Dog Cops_. Clint sat close enough that their thighs were touching and his arm brushed against Phil’s every time he brought a forkful of rolled up pasta to his mouth.

By the time the final episode came on, Clint’s head had migrated onto Phil’s shoulder, one of Phil’s arms wrapped around him. The episode ended with a heroic sacrifice from Sgt. Whiskers, and Clint stood up from the sofa to clean away their plates from the coffee table, leaving suspiciously damp spots behind on Phil’s shirt.

Phil was channel surfing again when Clint came back with the leftover pasta. “I’ve got your lunch, honey,” he drawled, handing the container over to Phil.

“Thanks babe,” Phil deadpanned. He stood up from the couch, crowding Clint. Clint didn’t want to be left hanging again and took initiative, pressing his lips softly against Phil’s, pulling away and nipping gently at Phil’s bottom lip when Phil pressed back.

“That’s payback for yesterday. You can’t just kiss me and walk away like that.”

Phil looked like he was repressing a laugh. “Obviously, I can.” He sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Clint agreed. “I’ll wait for you before I start on dinner.”

“You know me so well already,” Phil smiled.

Clint hummed in agreement before pulling Phil into another kiss, allowing Phil to reciprocate this time. A hand slipped into his hair, another was placed possessively on Clint’s hip. Clint threw his arms around Phil, placing his hands on Phil’s shoulder blades and pulling him closer. Phil was the first to pull back, briefly, before he simply leaned his forehead against Clint’s.

Clint ruined the moment by blowing air right into Phil’s face and dissolving into laughter at Phil’s indignant face.

“Fine,” Phil grumbled before cracking a smile. “Leaving now.”

“Night,” Clint said, still chuckling about Phil’s face.


	3. Chapter 3

The best thing about medical leave, Clint thought as he changed the bandages on his hands, was that he got to sleep in as long as he wanted. The worst part was that he was going stir-crazy with boredom, and it had only been three days. If it hadn’t been for Phil dropping by the last two days, he was sure he would have already re-damaged his hands in some way while trying to entertain himself. As it was, he wanted to make his apartment more of a home, and have it more welcoming.

He’d been by a hardware store earlier, looking for paint. He’d come back with two colours, and he felt like an idiot for it, but this one shade of blue had reminded him of Phil’s eyes. He’d bought the can on impulse, and kept cursing himself for _why_ he had to do that. Too late to change it now though, and Clint had to admit the blue would go well together with the darker shade of purple he’d eventually settled on as the main colour.

Clint started moving around his furniture, shoving it away from the wall and leaving it where it ended up, as long as it was far enough from the wall to be safe from paint splatters. By the time he’d found some tape and was ready to start taping off all the plinths, a knock broke his concentration. That was what happened when you slept in ‘till noon, Clint guessed, and placed the tape carefully on the coffee table before opening the door.

“Hello there, loverboy,” Clint leered.

Phil raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I still want to give you this now.” He held up a neatly wrapped rectangle. “This, on the other hand,” he held up Clint’s container, “is yours.”

Clint made a _no shit, Sherlock_ face, and accepted the container, inviting Phil inside with the wave of a hand.

Phil took one look at the scattered furniture and sighed, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. “I don’t want to know.”

“Aww, Phil. So little trust,” Clint said as he shoved the blue can of paint behind a stack of magazines with his foot.

Phil rolled his eyes and bumped his shoulder against Clint’s when he walked past him to the kitchen, throwing the package on the dinner table. “My colleagues are loving your food.”

“Yeah?” Clint started pulling items from his fridge, deciding to keep it simple tonight. “That why you keep coming back?”

“Of course. I’ve never been so popular,” Phil replied, leaning over Clint’s shoulder. “What’s for tonight?”

“Meatballs in tomato sauce with mashed potatoes,” Clint said, looking over his shoulder at Phil. He couldn’t resist a quick peck at Phil’s lips before handing him the potatoes. “Here. You peel and mash these, I’ll handle the balls.” He wiggled his eyebrows to make sure Phil got the message.

Phil snorted and set to work, handing his pot of mashed potatoes over to Clint when he was done. Clint put them on a low fire, handing Phil a can of milk. “You just got to stir them and slowly add the milk. Add some nutmeg and whatever else you like in, et voila. Mashed potatoes.”

Clint stood pressed next to Phil, stirring into his own pot of tomato sauce with meatballs. It felt completely domestic, and Clint found that he didn’t mind it at all. He bumped his butt against Phil’s to get his attention and handed him the spoon he was using. “Hold this for a bit, and stir this for me while I set the table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint decked the table with a smirk, pausing briefly when his eyes landed on Phil’s package. He pushed it over to what would be Phil’s side of the table.

“You can turn the fire off now.”

Clint ushered Phil into his designated chair and put the pans on the table. “Have you ever had this before?”

Phil shook his head as Clint filled his plate, drowning the potatoes in sauce. “You’re gonna love it. I usually mix them and end up with tomato purée with meatballs hidden in it.”

He watched Phil like a hawk – ha – for a reaction, pumping a fist in victory when Phil _moaned_ around his first bite. A faint blush crept up on Phil and he mumbled, “Shut up.”

By the end of the meal, it looked like Phil’s colleagues would have to take care of their own lunch again. Phil sagged down his chair and sighed, fingering the package next to him. “You don’t really need it, but I’d still like you to have this.”

A brief flick of his fingers sent the package sliding over the table, Clint easily catching it before it bumped into his glass. He glared briefly at Phil, who shrugged apologetically, before ripping open the paper.

“A cookbook?”

“It was my mother’s, she made notes it in. She passed it onto me in the hope it would help me, but alas. It’ll be of more use to you than it ever will be to me.”

“Nice,” Clint said as he flipped through the pages. “Any suggestions?”

“I’m not a fussy eater. Anything’s fine.”

“Thanks, Phil.” Clint looked up from the book to smile broadly.

After that, they migrated to the couch again, Clint openly sagging against Phil’s side. Phil briefly pushed him off to get the remote control before pulling Clint back against him and slinging an arm over his shoulder.

\---

The timer went off, indicating another batch of scones was ready to be pulled from the oven. Doubting the bandages around his hands would be enough to protect him, Clint grabbed his oven mitts and pulled the raster from the oven, carefully picking the scones off and placing them on a platter to cool off.

Looking up at the clock, he saw it was around the time Phil had been dropping by, so he went to open the door at a crack and grabbed the tape from the coffee table, preparing to finally tape off the plinths.

The final piece of tape got applied just as the door fell into the lock. “Just the man I was looking for,” Clint said as he jumped up from his crouch and turned around. He grabbed one of the platters full of cooling scones and held it up under Phil’s nose.

“Try these. They’re your mother’s recipe.”

Phil picked one and tentatively took a bite, processing it before taking another, bigger bite. “Hmm. What’s in these?”

“Coconut pineapple,” Clint spoke around a mouthful of scone. “Your mom’s brilliant.”

“I’ll let her know.” Phil carefully nibbled the rest of his scone, releasing a heavy sigh once it was finished.

 “Clint.” The grave tone was enough to stop Clint from making a silly remark about how he shouldn’t be sad now he’d finished his scone since there were plenty more.

“I won’t be home this week, I have to go take care of something at work.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint nodded.

“That’s it?” Phil asked incredulously.

“What?” Clint chuckled. “I’m a bodyguard; I understand having a demanding job, and I understand being unable to tell anyone about it. Simple as that.”

Phil huffed and pulled Clint into his arms. “Are you real?” he sighed into Clint’s ear.

“Yeah, I’m awesome,” Clint smiled into Phil’s neck. “And if this is your last home-cooked meal in a while, you’re gonna be so happy.” He released Phil with one arm and led him to the kitchen, holding one arm around Phil’s waist.

“Pizza! I didn’t know what toppings you like so I got some of everything and you can choose whatever you want.”

“Homemade pizza? Now I’m definitely convinced you’re not real.”

“You better believe it,” Clint said. He watched as Phil placed his preferred toppings on top of the pizza dough, meanwhile throwing his own favourite toppings on his own pizza.

The pizzas safely placed in the oven, they went over to the couch, following the established routine. Phil kept up his habit of channel surfing and then settling for some reality show.

By the time the pizzas were long gone and Phil had gone through all the channels hundreds of times, Clint felt it was time to make sure Phil had an added incentive to come back. He started trailing his hand slowly down Phil’s arm, keeping his touch feather light, and moving onto Phil’s thigh. He rested his hand there, right above the knee, and waited for Phil to look at him.

Luckily for Clint, it was time for a break during _The Apprentice_ and Phil turned to look at him expectantly. Clint grinned and scooted even closer, leaning in to press a kiss on Phil’s lips. Phil didn’t let him pull back again, and seemed to be of the mind to teach Clint what really filthy kisses were.

Clint ended up on his back, Phil lying sprawled over him, nipping his way softly across Clint’s jaw. Phil was being a lot more forward than Clint had planned, and he _loved_ it. Feeling Phil’s weight on top of him, pressing him down in the sofa. How Phil alternated between these soft nips and kisses that were premium porn-vid material.

He unbuttoned Phil’s shirt, getting his hands under it, trying to feel as much skin as possible, and cursed under his breath when he realised the bandages limited him to using his fingertips. Phil chuckled and hovered over his face a moment; Clint was positive they just shared a moment.

And then Phil broke eye-contact for another kiss, slowly pulling Clint’s t-shirt up. Clint arched up into Phil, giving him more room to remove the shirt while he simultaneously tried to pull Phil’s own shirt down his shoulders, pausing briefly to stretch out his arms and let Phil push the t-shirt off. He felt Phil making his way down his chest, exploring with his mouth. He tugged at Phil’s shirt again, fruitlessly, since Phil wouldn’t let go of his biceps long enough.

He gave up on the shirt and trailed his fingertips across Phil’s sides, eliciting a full-body shiver. Turned out Phil was ticklish, as Phil tried to squirm away from Clint’s touch. His squirming caused their groins to slide over each other, and Clint gave up on teasing Phil’s sides to try and work open both their pants.

Phil decided to keep up his trend of being utterly unhelpful and continued exploring Clint’s chest, only wriggling up and down as soon as Clint got his jeans open. Clint bumped up against Phil as he tried to wriggle out of his own pants.

Finally, _finally_ Phil took Clint’s boxer briefs in hand and pulled them down, taking a moment to look before going down on Clint. And Clint was totally prepared to forgive Phil for his earlier teasing, with Phil licking broad stripes on the underside of his cock, swirling his tong around the head.

“Phil,” he panted when it nearly became too much, pulling Phil back to kiss him, trying to pull down Phil’s own underwear at the same time. Tangling one hand Phil’s shirt, he grabbed Phil’s ass in the other, pushing him down.

Phil worked a hand between them, grabbing both their cocks and causing even more blessed friction. Clint was already near the edge, but another kiss from Phil was all it took, and he groaned with his release, slumping down. He tried to give Phil a hand – literally – but it got batted away, and he settled for just watching, taking in Phil’s face when he finally came.

Neither of them was in much hurry to move after Phil’s shirt got sacrificed to clean-up. Clint rolled his eyes when Phil threw the shirt on the floor after cleaning them up. “Of course you don’t take your shirt off until the sexy stuff is done.”

Phil smiled and started arranging Clint into a better position to use as a pillow, eventually snuggling into his chest. “I could pull it back on if you rather.”

Clint tightened his arm where it lay across Phil’s waist. “Not after all my efforts to get it off you.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days, Clint finally started painting his living room, using all the purple paint before discovering the blue paint hidden behind a pile of magazines and remembering he wanted some stripes as well. He spent a while actually watching the paint dry, before getting more tape and some primer. In the shop he briefly entertained the thought of a circle motive – how cool would that be – until he remembered that, while he was bored, he wasn’t desperate enough yet to go around his entire living room using only the one tiny template this store had.

Back home, he cooked enough to feed a small army as he was wont to do, freezing the leftovers. As the days passed by and his freezer filled up, he wondered what he did before Phil came along to mooch all his food off him.

When the paint was dry enough, he taped off the future vertical stripes, making them all a different width. Throwing on the primer and waiting for it to dry was another day spent.

By the time Clint’s living room was painted purple with blue stripes and had completely dried, he’d only got a few days left of his medical leave. But since he’d been going slightly mad, and had probably managed to poison himself by living in the paint fumes for days on end, Clint would be willing to do the damn _paperwork_ he still owed if it got him back into SHIELD.

\---

Turned out no-one even cared Clint was technically still on medical leave. One of the many joys of not having a handler, he supposed. He spent the day in the range, working with guns to at least give the impression he was still paying attention to medical advice. He’d switched from bandages to simple band-aids the day before, his hands already nicely healed on most places.

The following days, he kept up training, taking breaks to finish some paperwork. Clint was sure he had a cubicle assigned to him somewhere, but since no one had ever bothered to point it out to him, all his overdue paperwork was crammed into the tiny mailbox placed in a wall of tiny mailboxes, bearing his name. He figured if they wanted crease-free paperwork, they should have just taken the effort to show him the damn cubicle.

\---

On the final day of Clint’s medical leave, Phil returned. He swooped back into Clint’s living room, dressed impeccably in a fitted black suit rather than the casual clothes he usually wore when visiting Clint.

“Sure, just act like you’re at home,” Clint remarked from his spot by the door, watching Phil drape his suit jacket over a chair and undo his tie.

Phil smiled and shrugged. “Sorry. Post-mission adrenaline. It’ll pass.”

“I can think of a few things to get rid of superfluous energy,” Clint leered.

“I don’t doubt you can,” Phil smiled. “But I was hoping you might have something to eat for me, after living for days on rations.”

He was making puppy-dog eyes. And Clint had to admit they were damn effective, because ten minutes later, he’d reheated some leftovers and served them both a plate. When Phil started making googly eyes at the sofa, Clint sighed and relocated the silverware and a napkin to the coffee table and handed Phil his plate. When had he become the mature one, anyway?

Phil ended up eating half of Clint’s meal as well, sagging down in contentment.

“It’s my first day of work tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

Clint held up his hands. “Pretty much healed.”

“So you won’t have the time to re-paint my living room?” Phil asked, pointing at the wall.

Clint poked him in the side. “Should’ve asked before you left. What do you think?”

“I like it. The purple is very daring.”

“That’s because I’m a daring man. I dare to ask you to stay the night.”

“Really? You haven’t asked me anything yet.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Phil, will you stay the night so we can have morning sex,” and hurried to add after Phil’s frown, “and post-coital cuddling.”

“You make such a convincing argument.”

Clint grinned and leaned closer. “So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” Phil said, contradicting his suffering tone with a kiss.

\---

All the cuddling the night before – and the morning sex – had put Clint in a good mood, prepared to deal with whatever new handler SHIELD threw at him this time. A note in his mailbox informed him what office he was expected in.

When he found the correct office, he steeled himself and told himself it didn’t matter if he had to work with another asshole. The job was better than what he’d been doing before, and putting up with being treated like a mindless drone shouldn’t jar him this much.

He walked in without knocking and promptly bumped into a suit-clad man. “Barton?”

Clint nodded as he watched the man walk around him, out the door. “Follow me. You better be healed up ‘cause we just got a time-sensitive mission.”

Scrambling to follow his handler as he moved through the hallway, Clint grinned. “Finally, some action.”

His handler huffed, then shuffled around the papers in his hands before handing him a few. “Mission statements. I’m your new handler, Jasper Sitwell. Now go grab your gear and be prepared to leave in 30 minutes.”

Clint gave a half-assed salute, “Aye aye, sir.”

\---

“This won’t work.”

“What is it, Barton?”

Clint glanced in the direction he knew Sitwell was keeping watch. What he was about to do would probably get him thrown out of SHIELD – something he could handle, but it would probably gravely damage Sitwell’s reputation as well. The man had seemed decent enough during the plane ride here, and Clint briefly felt bad for him. But as Sitwell had said earlier, the mission was time-sensitive. No time to hesitate; he plucked out his comm and hung it over the rifle set up before him.

He jumped off the roof he’d been camped out on and ran across the wide open space, catching up to the target halfway to a plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter because I wanted a _cliffhanger_.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey Nat. Missed me?”

She didn’t respond and kept walking, stepping into the plane. Clint followed her, taking a seat across from her and leaning forwards, resting his chin on his hands.

“You know why I’m here.”

She gave a sharp nod, reaching over to buckle her belt when the plane started moving.

“The Black Widow just so happens to be spotted in a small town near a private airfield. An airfield owned by the mobster who’s rumoured to have _acquired_ the Black Widow’s services.” Clint paused, studying Natasha’s expression. Her face was carefully blank, showing no trace of emotion.

“Then you just walk across an open airfield. You wanted to be found.”

One side of her mouth slowly curled up, and she shrugged. “You were not part of the plan.”

Clint leaned back into his seat, grinning. “That’s me. Screwing up people’s plans wherever I go.”

\---

By the time the plane landed, Clint had managed to reminiscence with Natasha about his good old merc days when they’d met and briefly worked together, before she took off for a solo job without informing him and basically stranding him in the middle of nowhere without a car. He’d also told her about his current job – which was just slightly better than being a wanted criminal – and weaselled a promise out of her she’d give SHIELD a shot (which, knowing Nat, might end up being literally).

They easily took out the goons who were waiting for the Black Widow to join them at the airport, found a deck of cards, and started a vicious game of _shithead_.

Clint had lost several rounds and was on his way to another defeat when Sitwell finally barged in with a little back-up. The draft from the blown-out windows scattered the cards all over the floor, something Clint _absolutely_ did not sent Natasha a gleeful look about.

Both of them were taken in; despite their docility Sitwell still ordered a doubling of the guards. Clint was questioned first, where he – for once – patiently explained everything and hoped for the best. Sitwell abandoned him after his story was finished, leaving Clint alone and shackled to a table for what felt like a year, but upon his return he uncuffed Clint and oh yeah, Clint was back on probation for a week.

It wasn’t the worst thing to happen, except now he’d have to miss dinner with Phil, TV-time with Phil and bedtime with Phil. He thanked his own genius for quickly switching numbers with Phil that morning and quickly sent a text, informing him he wouldn’t be around for a while.

The reply came half an hour later, saying Phil would miss Clint’s food.

\---

The week passed agonizingly slow; Clint was being send as back-up to recon missions with the junior agents. The only thing keeping him from going stir-crazy were Phil’s texts, who always replied to whatever Clint send him, no matter how inane. Clint carefully mixed a few personal questions between the nonsense, trying to learn more about Phil.

On the final day, Sitwell informed him that the Black Widow was cleared for duty, and that she’d form a team with Clint when she came back from her severely truncated training. And since Sitwell didn’t want to be associated with the Black Widow, they’d get a new handler – someone who was currently still mixing fieldwork with his other responsibilities. It amazed Clint that someone would retire as a field agent to handle a team that was bound to get into shit-tons of trouble.

Allowed to leave the building unsupervised again, he changed clothes before going over to Phil’s place. Phil wanted to give cooking for _him_ a try, which endeared Phil even more to Clint. He’d been warned beforehand it wouldn’t taste as great as his own cooking, but Clint was used to far worse and greatly enjoyed Phil’s efforts.

Over the following weeks, they kept switching between their apartments, building a routine in as far as it was possible with their erratic schedules. It didn’t take Clint long to start missing Phil’s presence next to him the few times he had to stay overnight on a mission.

One night, he was enjoying some quality cuddle time in Phil’s bed when he got a text. No one apart from Phil ever texted him, so he released his hold on Phil and grabbed his phone.

“Cover your eyes,” he mumbled to Phil, because he could be a considerate boyfriend when he wanted.

He unleashed the brightness of hell upon them; blinking the tears out of his eyes, he read the text – it was from Nat, saying she’d be back later that week.

Throwing the phone back on the nightstand, he flopped down onto Phil, who let out a small _oof_. Quickly pressing a kiss on Phil’s belly, he turned his head to look at Phil.

“I might’ve gotten a sort of promotion at work.”

Phil didn’t immediately reply, lifting his hands to card through Clint’s hair. “Sort of?”

“They’re probably gonna give me more dangerous stuff but I’m not sure if I’m getting a pay raise.”

Phil chuckled underneath him and stilled his hand. “How come they’re giving you more dangerous _stuff_?”

“’m getting a partner,” Clint shrugged, carelessly shouldering Phil in the side. “Like, a crazy capable partner.”

Phil hummed and started petting Clint’s head again. Through the dark, Clint was unable to see Phil’s expression, but something felt off to him. He was sure Phil would tell him when he was ready – he was probably just worried for Clint’s health.

\---

Sitwell had Clint on probie training to keep him on base for Widow’s return, and because he could be a patient teacher when he wanted. He just wasn’t in the mood today, preferring to hunt them down with paint arrows. One of his students tried to sneak through a senior agent’s office in the vain hope Clint wouldn’t risk getting paint all over the place. Clearly she didn’t know him very well, Clint thought as he shot an arrow right between her shoulder blades.

He watched how she turned around, scanned her environment and lingered just a bit longer where he was hiding. So far, she was the only one who’d even gotten close to spotting him. He got up from his hiding spot and slung his arm around his student’s shoulders. “Your stealth could use some work, but you did good on tracking the projectile. Keep it up.”

Leaving her behind in the office, he tracked down his remaining trainees and took them down one by one. Seeing the paint splatter all over them and have them whirl around, frantically searching for where Clint was hiding was one of his biggest pleasures in life.

His mood had improved enough he gathered his probies and reversed the exercise – he would wander around in the building while they got paint-filled balloons to try and hit him. After that, Clint spent the day mostly wandering pleasantly from break room to break room, stealing coffee and snacks as he went. Everywhere he went, his students left behind a mess, courtesy of Clint letting himself be spotted and easily avoiding their balloons. He backtracked a group of the arrogant ones and threw his own balloons, hitting them full in the back; when they started whining how unfair it was Clint had balloons too, he scoffed, “If you expected fair fights, you shouldn’t have joined SHIELD.” before disappearing again.

By the time the training session was over, most of SHIELD HQ had undergone a redecoration in bright, flashy colours; Clint looked forward to the memos he’d surely be sent about it. Clint assembled his newbies in the training room, congratulating them on a job well done and giving them some individual pointers to improve. Just as he was about to dismiss the group, they all got a wicked glint in their eyes and paint balloons appeared in their hands.

Clint laughed as he dodged and ran, avoiding as many balloons as possible. Being hit was unavoidable in the small room, and his uniform was one mess of clashing colours when they finally ran out of balloons. He tried to hug as many of his favourite students as possible, rubbing the fresh paint off on their already paint-splattered outfits.

Finally dismissing his class, he decided to grab a quick shower at HQ instead of waiting ‘till he got home like usual. He thoroughly checked himself in the mirror for any leftover paint and finding none, he walked home.

It was Clint’s turn in their rotation, so when he got home he sent off a quick text to Phil he was starting dinner. They’d exchanged keys to their apartments a few weeks previously, so Clint didn’t bother leaving the door unlatched and started cooking.

He was whisking up some fresh mayonnaise when he felt Phil’s arms snake around his waist, his chin propped up by Clint’s shoulder. Phil leaned against him, watching him work until he suddenly pulled back and started examining Clint’s hair. “Is that paint in your hair?”

Setting down the bowl of mayonnaise Clint brought up a hand to feel at his hair where Phil was staring. “Maybe?” He shrugged.

Phil’s eyes flickered to his, and kept staring, conveying his scepticism. Eventually, Phil released his hold on Clint’s focus by sighing and leaning into Clint’s back again. Clint turned back to the food and gently flipped the steaks, hoping he hadn’t screwed them up while he was distracted.

“There just happened to be a paint-related incident at work,” Phil told him.

“Oh?” Clint turned his head to see Phil’s profile on his shoulder.

“Apparently one of the trainers let his trainees run around the building with paint while they tried to hit him.”

Phil’s calm expression didn’t change, so Clint took the time to turn off the fire and put the pan with nearly done steaks out of the way, leaving a respectable distance between them. He turned to face Phil, folding his arms over his chest.

“Sounds like a great guy.”

 “He is.” Phil cracked a little smile. “That’s not all, Clint.”

Clint felt panic clawing up through his chest, choking him – this was Phil breaking up with him, and it killed him that Phil remained so calm.

“I should’ve realised sooner. Clint,” Phil said, voice still so unbearably calm, “I retired as a field agent because I wanted to have a job less likely to injure me every five minutes I’m out. For you.”

Clint looked up from Phil’s chest, into those gentle blue eyes. “What?” he choked out.

Phil stepped closer, reaching out one hand. “I love you, Clint. But fate dealt me Hawkeye and Black Widow as my assets. I’m giving you the choice.”

Clint’s mind was reeling with the implications of those statements, but one question was the most urgent. “So you’re not breaking up with me?”

Taking another step forward, Phil finally placed his hand on Clint’s arm. “Not unless you want to. I’ll be your future handler – it won’t be easy to continue like that.”

Clint couldn’t believe Phil would do that; he knew for certain there were no fraternisation rules against dating other SHIELD agents since Sitwell had told him he could pick up where he left off with Natasha. He didn’t want to lose Phil, and having him as his handler would only be a problem if they let it. But he’d been silent too long for Phil’s taste, because he pulled his hand back and backed away again.

“You’re still in your twenties, I’m sure you’ll find someone new.”

The words shocked Clint, making him step forward to pull Phil in his arms. “Nooo, Phil. I don’t want to find someone new. And I would be honoured to have you as my handler. Don’t go all self-sacrificing on me.”

Phil huffed and buried his face in Clint’s neck, returning the hug. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Clint rushed to say, tightening his arms. “Yes, I’m sure. I love you too, Phil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shithead the card game](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shithead_\(card_game\)).  
>  I seem to have spilled an entire ton of sugar in to this chapter. Oh well.   
> Just the epilogue left now. :)


	6. Epilogue

“Don’t do it Nat, it’s a bomb!”

Nat smirked and ignored Clint’s advice, grabbing the red piece of plastic, turning it around so she could face the drawing on the other side.

“You are too predictable, Clint. Stop placing your flag on the same square every time.”

“Pfft. You were supposed to ignore that place because no one would place their pieces the same way twice in a row.”

Natasha pulled up an eyebrow and stared at Clint. He threw up his arms in response. “It made sense in my head, okay! Now can we play something other than _Stratego_? I don’t like this game.”

“No. You agreed to best out of three.”

“And you’ve already won twice! Phil, tell her to stop.”

“Sure, honey,” Phil murmured, distracted by the work he was doing on his laptop.

Clint glowered at him and got ignored; giving in with a sigh, he picked up his pieces for the game and started setting them up.

“If you win this round, you may pick the next game,” Natasha allowed him.

“Yeah, right,” Clint huffed.

They started the game, Clint going in with a set tactic to _crush_ Natasha’s pieces. Sadly, he had to sacrifice as many pawns as he was able to swipe, and they were both down to a few clusters of squares. Eventually, Clint had to give up his search for Natasha’s flag, having to defend his own flag from her attempts to find it.

“That’s it! Phil, we’re banning board games from missions from now on,” Clint shouted when Natasha discovered his flag despite his best attempts at deflection.

Phil looked up calmly. “If I recall correctly, it was your idea to introduce Natasha to a new game every time we had to spend a period in a safehouse.”

“Traitor,” Clint muttered, sitting back and crossing his arms.

Phil simply smiled and went back to his laptop. Leaning forward again, Clint started helping Natasha to neatly put back the pieces in their box and fold up the board. “Had enough or do you want to continue beating me at another game?”

Natasha considered the question for a moment. “I’ll spare you the humiliation until our next mission.”

“Gee, thanks.” Clint stood up and went over to the couch Phil was occupying, snagging the remote of the coffee table before bumping Phil’s laptop of his lap and settling his head in the cleared space. He turned on the television, patted Phil’s thigh, and handed over the remote to let Phil do his channel surfing thing.

In the other room, the shower turned on, leaving Clint to desperately hope Nat left some hot water. All three of them had the horrible habit to enjoy long, hot showers at the end of a tiresome mission. Maybe Phil hadn’t, but he had to suffer through them anyway thanks to Clint.

Despite Phil’s initial fears, they worked together great, and because they’d officially changed their relationship status before they started working together, no one who knew about them was able to say anything about it. They’d built up much the same routine as they had back home, seamlessly including Natasha. Clint had been right, they gave him much more dangerous missions, and he loved every second of it. Except maybe the ones where he got captured, but then he didn’t talk about those missions unless he was alone with Phil, in the dead of the night.

The gentle petting of Phil’s hand through his hair and the background noises of the shower and the television lulled Clint into a doze. At some point, he briefly woke when someone lifted his legs and slid under them into the sofa, placing his legs on their lap and resting their warm hands on his ankle. He dozed away again, feeling safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Stratego the board game](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stratego).
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)


End file.
